


no good man

by bakkoush baba (blackmaggiecat)



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even's Perspective, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Self-Harm (not cutting)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmaggiecat/pseuds/bakkoush%20baba
Summary: Even dug his fingernails in, breaking skin, breaking down.He felt nothing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a comment by my lovely friend sav. ignores all canon after s3e08
> 
> also, trigger warning: there's no cutting in this fic, but there's other forms of self-harm. don't read if you can't deal.

Even was not a claustrophobic person. He wasn’t. Being as large a person as he was, that was for the best. But all the sudden, the gates on the sides of his top-bunk bed felt too close, it all felt much too small. He tried to curl in on himself, hoping that making himself smaller would make the space seem larger. It didn’t work, but he couldn’t leave his room.

He hadn’t left his bed since Sonja had picked him up from the police station. He’d secretly hoped it would be Isak, his parents, anyone other than Sonja, but it was okay. He broke down in Sonja’s arms and while the embrace felt hollow to him, it was familiar. He and Sonja had been down this road a dozen times before.

She had guided him to a taxi and brought him back home. She had guided him to his bed, half-carrying him up the ladder before giving him his meds, rubbing his back as he took them. Back when this was new to him, he might have seen her actions as loving, but now it simply seemed like she was going through the motions.

She tried to talk to him, but he pulled his pillow over his head. She sighed, and he heard the familiar creak of her climbing off of the bed and the sound of the heels of her boots clicking against the floor as she left.

He wishes she would have fought for him a little.

* * *

It took him a day and a half to ask about Isak. He was scared. All he could think of was the locker room, of the hotel room. Of how scared Isak must have been. How scared he must still be. He almost didn’t want to ask, but he had to know.

When he asked Sonja, her delicate eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “Even…”

“He’s afraid of me, isn’t he?” Even asked miserably, the darkness of his room shielding him as he reached up to grip the back of his neck, fingernails digging into the soft skin there. For all Sonja claimed to know him, she didn’t seem to know where this was going, just fixing his downturned face with a sympathetic gaze.

“Even, the last time I saw him…” she trailed off, her hands somehow becoming the most interesting thing in the room.

Even felt his fingernails break the skin. “Spit it out.”

“He was crying,” Sonja told him, not looking up, and Even can’t even think. “He looked so hurt.”

Even dug his fingernails harder, harder, harder until he could feel blood.

“He hates me,” Even stated simply, factually. Sonja put her hand on his knee, rubbing soothingly with her thumb. Even can’t find it in him to cry.

Later, he texts Isak song lyrics. He hopes he understands.

Isak tells Even to stop texting him. Even bites down as hard as he can on his thumb knuckle to stifle his cries.

* * *

Even leaves his room barely a dozen times in the course of week, all times going no further than the bathroom across the hall. Sonja, before she went to school, left some food in his room, and every day she would frown disapprovingly when she got back home and it remained untouched.

He wasn’t sure if Sonja was staying in the spare room, or if she went home at night. He suspected the former.

On the fourth day, Sonja came into his room and stood in front of his bed, reaching into his bunk to card her fingers through his now-greasy hair.

“Even, baby, you have to get over this,” she told him. He ignored her, turning to face the wall. His fingernails dug into his forearms and he scraped.

“Even?” she asks quietly, running her fingers through his hair again, and he ducked his head away, removing one bloody-fignernailed hand from his arm to grip his hair, pulling it away from her, yanking near-imperceptibly.

“Even, for God’s sake, just look at me!” Sonja demanded, and he tightened his grip on his hair and took his nails out of his arms in favor of grasping them desperately. He barely felt anything.

“Even! Even, please!” she near-shouted, frustration captured perfectly in every syllable. He bit his lip, hard.

He heard a disbelieving scoff from behind him, and he could almost see Sonja jutting out one hip, and cocking her head to the side. “Fine. Do what you want. Just take your meds, or I’ll fucking call your parents,” she said tiredly, and he heard the rattle of her chucking his weekly pill container onto the bed. He knew from experience that only one box would be full; she wouldn’t make that mistake again. Her heels made a clacking sound as she left.

Even grips his arm, feeling the blood oozing out of the scratches he made, and he suddenly feels pathetic. What kind of person does this to themselves? How could Isak ever love someone who did this to themselves?

He took his meds. It was the least he could do.

* * *

It’s Wednesday when Sonja apparently decides that Even has put off eating for too long. She climbs into his bunk, cheese toastie in hand. There is no cardamom on it. Even isn’t sure if he’s better or worse off for it.

She pulls the blanket away from his face, and he’s relieved that she hasn’t turned the lights on. If she sees the scratches on his neck, she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think she does.

She grips his shoulder, pulling him into a sitting position, and plops the plate into his lap. He tells her he isn’t hungry. She gestures to it anyways.

“Eat it, or I’ll make you eat it,” she tells him firmly, and he’s sensible enough to reach down his shaking hands and pick it up. He gives her a nervous glance, and she smiles in a way that is meant to be reassuring, but just seems patronizing.

He takes a bite, and then looks back at her. She seems pleased. She puts a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles as, slowly but surely, he eats the whole thing. She beams when she takes it from him.

Not so much when his stomach protests the food not ten minutes later, and stomach acid and cheese toasties make a surprise appearance on his bedsheets. She frowns then, but quietly guides him down from the bunk. She carefully removes the bedsheets, and is trying to take off his shirt when he panics.

“Please, Sonja,” he asks quietly, and she obliges, handing him a long-sleeve t-shirt and allowing him to change himself. He figures the fact that he spoke was enough for her.

* * *

Even woke up every night crying. He would grip at his neck, ripping skin, hoping it would bring him back down from this empty, painful state. He would spend his days in bed. Sonja would come by. She would bring food. He wouldn’t touch it. She would bring meds. He would take them. He would relieve himself. He would think of Isak. He would think of calling Isak. Of trying to text him.

Thursday night, he thinks of texting Isak. He thinks of how Isak told him to stop texting. He hurls his phone across the room, and he thinks he may have dented the wall. He goes back to sleep.

Rinse, repeat.

Depression is a bitch.

* * *

Friday, Sonja climbs the ladder, intruding into his too-small space. She pulls his head into her lap.

“Even, when are you getting up? I can’t be here all the time. I worry. You need to pull yourself out of this,” she says, and her tone is harsh. Even shakes his head.

“Even, you need to pull yourself out of this. What the hell is taking so long?” she asked.

“Isak hates me,” he blurts out, quietly, and the admission shocks them both. Sonja scoffs.

“You need to get over that, Even,” she insists, near-angrily, “the sooner you realize that you never loved him the sooner you can move on.”

Even’s eyes snapped to hers, widening. How could she say that?

“Sonja-” he started, but she cut him off.

“No, listen, Even, you need to get over that boy. You were manic! You and I both know what stupid fucking things you do when you’re manic! The twink was a phase! The stupid dabbling in being gay _was a fucking manic phase._ You need to get over it, you won’t get better if you keep acting like he mattered!”

Even stared up at her, horrified. Was this really what she thought? That his bisexuality was a phase, that he couldn’t love Isak just because he was bipolar?

He felt tears stinging his eyes, and he glared at Sonja. Fuck her. Fuck her and the way she thinks that he can’t handle himself just because he’s bipolar.

He remembers her saying she spoke to Isak the night Even… did what he did. She wouldn’t have… she couldn’t…

But the more he thought about it, she would. She liked to control people. This would be her way of controlling both him _and_ Isak. Naïve, trusting Isak, who probably believe her. It all made sense now.

“Fuck you,” he said suddenly, quietly. Her eyes widened.

“Excuse me?” she asked, looking astonished, both at his speech and what he said.

“Fuck. You,” he repeated, and he felt tears streaming down his face. All he can think of is Isak, alone, scared, in the middle of the night, believing that Even never loved him, that he was just a passing phase for a boy who couldn’t control himself. Fuck Sonja.

Sonja scoffed in disbelief, opening her mouth as if to speak but Even cut her off.

“Get out,” he said, his voice weak from disuse but still relsilient. Sonja didn’t back down, though.

“Really, you think I’m gonna leave you alone? After what you did last time?” the words portrayed no caring, just pride at having the upper hand. Even cowered, and Sonja took over the chink in his armor.

“Jesus, Even, you can barely deal with yourself! Would you even have taken your meds if I didn’t force them down your throat? Huh?”

Would he? Jesus, he didn’t know. Sonja knew. Sonja always knew.

“You don’t even know how you feel! You think you love a boy you barely know. You know me, Even. You love _me._ ”

And the moment is gone. Sonja doesn’t know him, she never will.

“You might love me, Sonja, but I haven’t loved you. Not in a long time. I love Isak. I need _Isak,_ is it really so hard for you to understand?” he voice breaks at the end, too weak and tired to carry his bountiful emotion. Sonja recoils as if slapped.

“Bullshit!” she shouts, but Even has already turned away, sitting up.

And then he hears a gasp.

His neck. The scabs. In her face. Exposed.

“Even…” her voice is soft, and he wants to start crying all over again.

“Get out, Sonja,” he insists, and this time she does.

He curls into a ball, shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face.

He had lied. He did love Sonja. But not the way she wanted him to love her. She was an annoying older sister, not a lover. He hated to hurt her.

And she had seen. She saw the scratches, she knew. She would call his parents, he was sure of it. she would call his parents, and they would call the doctor and he would go to the hospital and he would be miserable and Isak wouldn’t ever know that Even still loved him.

He’s sobbing, now, body spasming as his agony flies unchecked in his too-small room. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

* * *

When he wakes, he hears Sonja in the next room, speaking on the phone in a hushed voice. He hears “scratching”, “suicide”, “not again”. His parents, undoubtedly. He pulls his pillow over his head, going back to sleep. There’s no tears left in him anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Even was sleeping when Isak came in.

Or, well, not quite sleeping. His eyes were open, and his mind was conscious but he was staring, blankly, unfocused at the wall and his breathing was even and he was so out-of-focus that it almost counted as asleep. If Sonja had come in, even with her cautious and meticulous eyes, she wouldn't have known the difference.

Isak's (albeit soft) footfalls fell on deaf ears, and it wasn't until there was the familiar _creak_ of the loose floorboard exactly two steps from his bed that he even noticed he wasn't alone.

He thought it must be Sonja, surely it was Sonja, because the only other alternative he could think of was his parents, and with his parents came hospitals and perscriptions and _just take the fucking pills, Even_ and he didn't want to think of that. He couldn't.

He wanted to pretend he was still "asleep", but he already felt the muscles in his back tensing up and he knew that his mother and father and Sonja would have caught on to that so he just curled into a tighter ball, reaching his arms up instinctively to cover his neck, near-cowering into the motion.

And then he hears it. A voice. _The_ voice. Quiet, scared, and impossibly kind, and if he had been breathing at all he would have missed it.

"Even?"

_Isak._

He didn't want to turn around; he couldn't. He knew that he had taken all of his meds, but fuck, he always believed they were practically sugar pills anyways. There was always the off-chance of hallucinations, of hallucinating a small, nervous voice behind him. If he didn't turn around he could pretend it was real. If he didn't look behind him to find that Isak wasn't there, he could pretend he was. Could pretend that Isak still cared. That he still loved him.

"Even."

The voice was firmer this time, surer only by a smidgeon, but it was enough. Even felt nimble fingers shifting through his greasy hair, and he supposes he should feel relief or happiness or something but there's still nothing there. Nothing. Emptiness. Just like the whole damn week.

Fuck it. This isn't get any worse.

He rolls over, and his out-of-focus eyes meet tearstained, puffy ones. What does Isak have to cry about?

"Isak?" he dares to ask, nearly afraid of the answer, but impossibly more afraid of not receiving one.

Isak nods frantically, ever dopeishly enthusiastic, the jerky movement nearly making Even's head spin. After spending a whole week with Sonja, with her careful, soft movements, there was something strange about being jerked into a world where people move their body parts at more than a quarter mile an hour. He wasn't sure if it was refreshing or giving him a headache.

"Um..." Isak faltered, clearly knowing he wanted to do something but not really seeming to know what to ask, "can I come up?"

Even nodded, quarter mile an hour, his mouth not daring to move. He doesn't move a muscle, hands locked around his neck, knees pulled to his chest, but his eyes follow Isak as he walks over to the ladder, climbs up, climbs onto the bed.

This is not how he imagined Isak getting in his bed. This is not ho he wanted Isak's first time in his bed to be.

Jesus Christ, did he just fuck up everything he did?

Isak hesitated, and Even could see it, in his eyes, Sonja in his hesitance. It's the same look she had, that first time, bewilderment and overwhelming. But where Sonja was babbling and doing things, Isak was silent, staring at Even with those wide eyes and god, Even loved him.

Even loved him.

Even loved him.

Holy shit, Even can feel it.

He doesn't realize he is crying until a thumb reaches out to brush a tear from under his eye, though it did little help because the next tear followed swiftly. He was crying, shoulder shaking, and Isak crawls up his bed, pulling Even's head securely into his lap, carding his fingers through Even's hair, and Even wraps his arms tightly around Isak's waist and he

never

wants

to

let

go.

And then he realizes what he must look like: his hair, greasy from sweat and from never being washed, his nails caked in dried blood, his neck and forearms a mess of scabbing, his entire body shining faintly from lack of hygiene. He must look a fucking wreck, fucking disgusting, but Isak is still here.

Isak is here.

Isak didn't give up on him.

A long time ago, Even thought he loved Sonja, and other girls before her. But it wasn't until now, until this moment right here, that he truly knew what love was.

It was giving your heart up, letting yourself me left broken and bleeding and greasy, and having someone come back and place it in it's spot like it was always there, like it was meant to be there.

And he knew this didn't fix everything. Even with this influx of emotion, he still felt so depressed and empty, still didn't trust himself to stand on his own two feet for longer that a trip to the lavatory. He still had pills to take. He was still bipolar. He didn't know if Isak would be around forever, or if there would be dozens of Isaks in his lifetime.

But in this minute, Even Bech Naesheim was truly, honest-to-god in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this second installment is shoddy. my original plan was isak's p.o.v., but i felt like i needed to end with even. maybe i'll do a sequel of sorts with this chapter from isak's p.o.v.....?
> 
> major shoutout to sarah (@noworriessarah) on twitter for reminding me to update :)

**Author's Note:**

> chapter two to come shortly. i have two drafts of it started, one in isak's perspective and one in even's. we shall see.
> 
> come hit me up @sunshlnestella on twitter, we can be emo together


End file.
